handle. Nothing could be more
vagrant, devil-me-Garish, and, to use a slang word, tigerish, than
his whole air. Yet, vulgar as was his costume, he did not himself seem
vulgar, but rather eccentric, lawless,--something out of the pale of
convention. His face looked more pale and more puffed than before,
the tip of his nose redder; but the spark in his eye was of a livelier
light, and there was self-enjoyment in the corners of his sensual,
humorous lip.

"You are an author, sir," repeated Leonard. "Well; and what is your
report of the calling? Yonder column props an urn. The column is tall,
and the urn is graceful. But it looks out of place by the roadside: what
say you?"

MR. BURLEY.--"It would look better in the churchyard."

LEONARD.--"So I was thinking. And you are an author!"

MR. BURLEY.--"Ah, I said you had a quick sense of allegory. And so you
think an author looks better in a churchyard, when you see him but as a
muffled urn under the moonshine, than standing beneath the gas-lamp in a
white hat, and with a red tip to his nose. Abstractedly, you are right.
But, with your leave, the author would rather be where he is. Let us
walk on." The two men felt an interest in each other, and they walked
some yards in silence.

"To return to the urn," said Mr. Burley,--"you think of fame and
churchyards. Natural enough, before illusion dies; but I think of the
moment, of existence,--and I laugh at fame. Fame, sir--not worth a
glass of cold-without! And as for a glass of warm, with sugar--and five
shillings in one's pocket to spend as one pleases--what is there in
Westminster Abbey to compare with it?"

"Talk on, sir,--I should like to hear you talk. Let me listen and hold
my tongue." Leonard pulled his hat over his brows, and gave up his
moody, questioning, turbulent mind to his new acquaintance.

And John Burley talked on. A dangerous and fascinating talk it was,--the
talk of a great intellect fallen; a serpent trailing its length on the
ground, and showing bright, shifting, glorious hues, as it grovelled,--a
serpent, yet without the serpent's guile. If John Burley deceived and
tempted, he meant it not,--he crawled and glittered alike honestly. No
dove could be more simple.

Laughing at fame, he yet dwelt with an eloquent enthusiasm on the joy
of composition. "What do I care what men without are to say and think
of the words that gush forth on my page?" cried he. "If you think of the
public, of urns, and laurels, w